by Sara Bennett
“What sort of place would you prefer to take me to?” she said quietly. With a sideways glance at George, still busy with the gate, she lifted her hand, and he knew she wanted to trace the shape of his mouth, just as he knew he wanted to press his lips to hers.
“There is a garden in Italy, growing on the side of a hill.” His voice sounded shaky, uncertain, far from the autocratic tone he’d used in Bentley Green. “There is an orchard and you can pick oranges from the trees and taste the sun in them. They crush their own grapes and make their own wine. I’ve dined in a courtyard full of flowers and music and laughter, with moths dancing around the candle flames. Perhaps, one day…”
She was gazing at him, her expression soft and dreamy, a little smile playing on her lips. “Valentine…”
But then George came up, interrupting. “That gate will fall down if I get it open. We’ll have to climb over it.” He held out his hand to help Marissa down to the ground. “Do you think you can manage?”
She nodded. “I—I think so.”
George tested the strength of it, putting his boot on the first wooden bar, before swinging his leg over the top and dropping down to the other side. Impatiently, Marissa gathered her skirts out of the way with one hand, holding her bonnet with the other and prepared to follow.
“No.”
Valentine was down from the carriage before he had a chance to reconsider. He swept her up in his arms and held her nice and securely against his chest. Startled, she clutched hold of her bonnet, and looked up at him with wide eyes.
“That’s better,” was all he said. “George?”
George chuckled as he held out his own arms to receive her. “Ready.”
“There’s—there’s no need. Really,” she said breathlessly.
“My brother being gallant,” George teased, “that’s something I haven’t seen for a long time. Make the most of it, Marissa.”
Valentine ignored them both, swinging Marissa up and over the top of the gate, and depositing her gently within George’s grasp. A moment later she was on her feet in the garden, and Valentine vaulted over behind her, landing with a thump and striding off into the wilderness.
“Follow me,” he called, heading into the dank greenery.
“Follow me,” Marissa muttered an hour later, wiping a gloved hand across her brow, and glaring down at the remains of a tangled patch of forget-me-nots, the sticky seeds clinging to her skirts.
Since Valentine had marched off into the garden like an explorer heading into darkest Africa, Marissa seemed to have gotten nowhere despite hours of hard work.
“Anything that looks like a rose, call me to take a look,” he had instructed before he disappeared entirely. “Remember, the Crusader’s Rose should be flowering at this time of year, but if it’s struggling in this mess it may not have the necessary light and nourishment to flower. The leaves are a pale green and the thorns have a reddish tinge and are hooked over like a hawk’s claws.”
George had dredged up a sigh from the depths of his being. “I hope you know you will be reimbursing me for this. My tailor’s bill needs paying and I am going to tell him to send it to you. I’ll probably need a new set of clothes after I’ve fought my way through this jungle.”
“Then you should not have worn your London best, George. This isn’t a stroll along Bond Street, you know.”
George swept his brother’s ensemble a scornful look. “One of the Kents has to keep up appearances, Valentine.”
The two of them headed into the garden, still arguing, until their voices faded completely.
At first Marissa remained close to the gate, exploring the edges of the garden, but eventually she was drawn further and further into it. Narrow paths were still evident, their bricks moss-covered and slippery, while dark and mysterious tunnels of undergrowth tempted her away from the light. Soon she was barely aware of the two men, apart from the occasional snapping of a twig or the rustling of leaves, and even that began to blend in with the natural sounds of the place.
She was completely immersed and it was only when a rumble of thunder sounded overhead that she realized how much time had flown by. Surprised, she looked around her. The light was fading, as the approaching rainstorm trailed its dark skirts over Beauchamp Place. If it had been creepy before it was more so now. Almost as if something was watching her, waiting to pounce.
And gobble her up.
“Valentine?” she called, her voice a squeak. “George?”
Neither of them answered. She forced back her panic, reminding herself that until a moment before she had been deaf and blind to anything but the search for the Crusader’s Rose, and no doubt they still were.
Marissa stood up on her tiptoes, peering through perennials that were now as big as small trees, but it was impossible to see through the close-growing greenery from here. She needed to find a high point.
The sky lit with lightning, and a moment later there was another growl of thunder. Marissa knew she’d had enough. Pushing her way along one of the paths, she glanced up at the Beauchamp house looming above her, its dark windows like watching eyes. Lightning flashed again and just for a brief second she saw a figure, standing within the frame of the window, silhouetted against the room behind him.
He was watching her and she stared back. His hair was pale. Fair, like Valentine’s or George’s? Or was it gray, like Baron Von Hautt’s? Then the figure stepped back into the room and was gone, merging into the shadows.
“Valentine!” This time her voice was surely loud enough, but still there was no answer.
The wind suddenly gusted up around her, tossing leaves and branches. Rain splattered down in big drops, just a few at first, and then more rapidly. Wet now as well as frightened, Marissa forced her way through a great mound of tangled vines. Ahead of her lay a relatively open space, set in the middle of the garden. Low brick walls delineated what appeared to be the remains of a pond but was now little more than a muddy ditch.
There was something lying down there at the pond’s edge. Clothing and a pair of boots…Her heart began to beat harder. She reached the wall and climbed over it—it was only waist-high, but broken in places. Sharp rushes caught at her skirts and crackled under her shoes, but she no longer noticed. Now she was closer she could see exactly what was lying in the pond.
His boots were in the mud, his legs spread-eagled, while an outflung arm cradled his fair head.
She began to run.
Valentine.
Chapter 26
Marissa didn’t remember moving, but suddenly she was kneeling beside him, turning him over with hands that were surprisingly steady. His skin was pale, but not deathly so, and a trickle of blood ran down the side of his face from the lump on his brow, just below his hairline.
He must have fallen, knocked himself unconscious.
But Marissa knew that wasn’t what happened. She’d seen Von Hautt upstairs in the house, she was sure of it, and wherever the baron was disaster followed. He had already attacked Jasper, why not Valentine? Why not Marissa…?
A prickling sense of being watched brought her head around, eyes wide, searching the surrounding garden, but there was no one there. She was alone with an injured man.
What about George? Had he been attacked, too?
Marissa didn’t have time to go looking for him, and she wasn’t going to leave Valentine alone here, helpless and hurt. She began to tug at him, grasping the folds of his jacket and pulling him further from the remains of the pond. It occurred to her that if he’d fallen the other way, with his head in the muddy water, he might have drowned.
What would her world be like without Valentine Kent?
She felt dizzy at the thought. Was this the moment when a respectable young lady should faint? Marissa decided she couldn’t be very respectable because she had no intention of fainting. Instead she was angry, and getting angrier. Baron Von Hautt had attacked Valentine, her Valentine, and she was going to see that he was punished for it.
Valentine m
ade a noise, a groan, and Marissa stopped tugging at him. He opened his eyes, their color even more striking in the gathering gloom of the storm, and peered up at her as if he didn’t know who she was.
She cupped his face with her hands, her voice trembling with emotion.
“Darling Valentine, what happened?”
He looked at her blankly a moment more, and then all of a sudden understanding flooded his face. He tried to sit up. The abrupt movement must have made him light-headed because he stopped, cursing, and raised a hand to his head, examining the bump.
“Here, let me…” She tried to support him, but he didn’t want her help, and a moment later he had pushed himself to his feet and staggered over to the wall. He sat down on the crumbling bricks, still pale, but his voice was strong with resolve.
“I have to find Von Hautt.”
She came and stood before him. The rain was steady, and the feather in her bonnet was sodden, dangling down over her eyes and tickling her chin. Valentine’s hair was plastered to his skull, and the blood from his injury was mingling with the water and running down his cheek. She reached out and, with her sleeve, wiped it away.
“What happened to you?”
“I was searching for the rose. I don’t know how long he was watching me, but suddenly he was just there.” He rubbed a hand across his eyes, hard, as if he was trying to clear his head. “He said, ‘Give up, Kent, the rose is mine.’ I tried to grab hold of him, but my foot caught in some brambles, and he laughed while I tried to get free. Then George was shouting, coming along one of the paths.”
“I’ve been calling for George but he won’t answer. Valentine, tell me he isn’t hurt, too?” She was shaking now, from cold and reaction—the anger seemed to have shrunk to a little hard knot inside her.
He shook his head. “Von Hautt kicked out at me.” He put his hand to his ribs with a wince. “I fell. Hit my head on something on the ground. A stone or a brick, I think. He was looking down at me, grinning, and he said…he said…” He closed his eyes and stopped, grinding his teeth.
“What did he say?”
But Valentine either couldn’t or wouldn’t answer her. He took a deep breath, wincing again from his bruised ribs. “George arrived and I heard them arguing. Then running. I tried to get up, to follow them, but I was dizzy and I tumbled over the wall and down into the pond. I must have lost consciousness. The next thing I saw was you.”
“So George is…?”
Marissa looked around. The rain was still coming down and she was as soaked as she could possibly be. She felt Valentine’s hand close on hers and he began to rub it between his, as if to warm it.
“You’re all wet,” he said mildly.
“Yes, Valentine, it’s raining.” Her smile was lopsided, but she hoped he couldn’t tell how miserable she felt.
He stood up, slipping his arm about her and pulling her to his side. “Come on, let’s find some shelter,” he said, and together they stumbled toward the house.
“I saw the baron upstairs at the window,” she said, brushing the soggy feather out of her face. “He might still be here.”
Valentine looked up, his eyes glittering. “Oh, I hope so.”
They reached the portico over the front door. A furious gust of wind blew rain into their meager shelter. Valentine cursed, wiping the rain from his eyes, and shoved at the door. It swung open.
Inside it wasn’t as dark as Marissa had expected, although the smell of damp and rotten wood told its own story. Looking up, she saw that what had once been a stained glass window far above had broken, and rain was dripping in. Cobwebs hung in curtains from the corners and the pieces of furniture stacked and abandoned around the walls were coated thickly with dust.
“Where did you see him?” Valentine asked. There was a staircase rising up to a gallery, part of which had begun to come away from the walls. The ornately carved railing where once Beauchamps had stood to admire their home was now warped and broken.
She did her best to explain, ending with, “But he could be anywhere now and…Valentine!”
He ignored her, already heading up the stairs, moving swiftly for a man who had recently been lying unconscious. Marissa went to follow him but she’d only taken a couple of steps when he turned to face her.
“No!” he roared. “Stay there.”
His autocratic attitude didn’t surprise her, and Marissa was prepared to argue. “I want to come with you!”
He jabbed his finger at her, emphasizing each word. “Stay right there until I come back.”
“What if the baron—”
He was grinding his teeth again. “He won’t because he’s upstairs. I’m going to teach him a lesson in manners.”
Marissa wanted to protest but he was already on the move again, as if he expected her total obedience. He reached the first landing and a moment later he’d disappeared down one of the corridors.
Did he really expect her to stand and wait for him? Stand all alone while he went off after the baron? After what happened last time the two of them met? Marissa had no intention of obeying him—he wasn’t her husband yet, and even if he was…well, Marissa had her own thoughts on the obedience to which a husband was entitled.
As she climbed the stairs they creaked alarmingly. She slowed, moving more cautiously, testing each tread before she rested her weight on it. That was when she noticed the heavy layer of dust on the bare wooden treads and the clear footprints. She could see where Valentine had just been, but there was another set of footprints, an earlier set, sometimes overlaid by Valentine’s.
Von Hautt?
Who else could it be?
The fact that the footprints were only going upward seemed to imply the baron hadn’t come back this way. Marissa wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. Valentine might be struggling with Von Hautt at this very moment….
She couldn’t lose him now that she’d found him.
A wave of despair washed over her. It wasn’t just her current situation. She knew why she felt so low. It was her rain-soaked condition. Her sodden skirts were dripping, her hat was falling to pieces, and her skin was cold and clammy. When she’d been on botanical expeditions before she’d been exposed to the sun and the wind, even the snow, and maintained her equilibrium, but she never could abide being rained on. Lady Bethany used to laugh and say she must be half cat, the way she behaved when her feet got wet.
Marissa pushed the feather out of her eyes again, and made her way across the landing. Valentine must be following the footsteps, too, she decided, because they were both going in the same direction. Abruptly a door slammed overhead, making her jump. She looked up, listening hard, but there was nothing more. The wind, perhaps? It was certainly moaning around the house, gusts shaking loose boards and shutters, tearing at roof tiles.
There was an open door to her left and she peered in. The room was empty, with wallpaper peeling from walls where damp stains made strange shapes. Dried leaves rustled in the corners, where they’d blown in through the broken windows.
“Valentine where are you?” she whispered, looking ahead into the deeper shadows, trying not to imagine the baron waiting to pounce on her. Her skin was icy and she held her arms around herself, seeking a little warmth, her shivering almost constant.
“Valentine? Marissa?”
It was George! With a cry of relief she spun around and hurried back to the head of the stairs. Relief made her careless and she came to a halt against the banisters, using it as a brake. The old wood cracked loudly under hands and she felt it begin to give way. She scrambled backward, almost falling, landing against the wall with a thud.
“Marissa, be careful.” George was striding toward her up the stairs. “The whole place is about to come down.”
He was soaked, his trousers splashed with mud and his hair slicked to his skull.
“Valentine was knocked unconscious,” she gabbled. “I saw Von Hautt at the window and he’s gone to find him.”
George frowne
d as he deciphered this. “Well, he won’t find him,” he reassured her. “I’ve just chased him across the fields until I lost him in the trees. Our friend the baron is gone…for now at least.”
“And it really was Von Hautt?” Marissa said.
“Oh yes. And Valentine’s not badly hurt?”
“He’s walking and talking.”
George grinned. “He’s got a hard head. I had to leave him when I took off after the baron, but I could hear him cursing after he hit his head on the brick, so I didn’t think it was too serious.”
Marissa decided if she’d been in George’s shoes she would never have left Valentine. She gave a shiver at the memory of seeing his body.
“We need to find somewhere warm,” George said, giving his jacket a sorrowful look. “When we find Valentine I think we should go back to the Fox and Hounds and ask our friendly landlord for some rooms and some hot baths.”
“Nonsense!”
They both looked up as Valentine came around the corner and onto the landing. “We’re going home to Abbey Thorne Manor,” he growled. “If Von Hautt is watching the house—and he must be if he followed us here—then I want him caught and locked up as soon as possible.”
“Valentine—” George began to protest.
“This is more important than you warming your toes in front of a good fire, George.”
Marissa noticed a new smear of dirt on his cheek but no new injuries, although the bump on his head was turning a colorful shade of purple.
“Not me,” George retorted. “I’m thinking of Marissa. She’s frozen through. Look at her.”
He did. His gaze narrowed, sweeping over her from head to toe, and back again. “She’s certainly soaked,” he said, “but then we all are. I thought this was what you liked, Marissa. The adventure, the chase.”
“I do, but—”
“Well then, you should be prepared for a little hardship.”
Marissa gave a violent shiver. Her bonnet slipped forward and the feather drooped over one eye. It was the final straw.
